um 


ornson 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


OK 


Deceived 
Accessions  No. 


JAN  1895        .  189     . 
~.        Class  No.     ffiv 


UNIVERSITY 


mi 


X 


FROM   PHOTO   BY 

A.  O    CARPENTER 

UKIAH,  CAL. 


v 

'  >          ,     •  &•&•)  H 


LATER    POEMS 


OF 


ANNA  MORRISON  REED 


IN    ONE  VOLUME 


0»  TBDS 

UNI7BRSITY 


SAN   FRANCISCO 

J.    STUART  &  COMPANY,   PUBLISHERS 
1891 


COPYRIGHT    1891 

BY 

ANNA    MORRISON    REED 

LAYTCNVILLE.  CAL. 


ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PRINTED  BY   P.  M.  DIERS   &.  CO.,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


TO  THE    MEMORY  OF 'MY  MOTHER. 


CONTENTS 


A  GOLDEN  DREAM     IN  MEMORY  OF  LEON 21 

ANTE-MORTEM 54 

BROWNING 3I 

CHRISTMAS,  1890 I9 

DEATH  OF  GENERAL  GRANT — A  MONODY •       .  44 

DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD— A  MONODY 2 

FRAGMENTS 32,  42 

GERTRUDE  AND  THEODORE            i3 

GOOD  FRIDAY I? 

HER  KING T 

"I  Do  BEGRUDGE  TO  TIME" 48 

"I  PASS  HER  GRAVE" 25 

"I  THIRST" 27 

JUNE 37 

LOVE'S  MAGIC  SEAL 33 

"MILES  ARE  BETWEEN  Us" 36 

MOTHER — A  REVERIE 6 

"My  LIFE  is  DEVOTED  TO  MEMORIES  OF  You" 28 

"No  BABES  IN  ARMS" — A  SATIRE 3o 

ODE  TO  PROGRESS— PRIZE  POEM 34 

RETROSPECT I2 

SACRAMENTO                              , 52 

SONNETS 3<D)  38 

SUNSET     .                 l6 

THE  ECLIPSE            2g 

"THE  GLADDEST  HEART" 5I 

To  A  CHARMING  PORTRAIT  OF  A  GYPSY  MAIDEN 49 

To  THE  NATIVE  SONS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  WEST 26 

To  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 43 

WASHINGTON — 1789-1889 „ 

WASTED 


UNIVERSITY 


THE  LATER  POEMS 

•     OF    .    :•*.  ~ 

ANNA    MORRISON     REED 


WINSOME  maiden  planned  her  life- 
How,  where  she  was  her  hero's  wife,\<Yw 
He  should  be  royal  among  men, 
And  worthy  of  a  diadem. 
Through  all  the  devious  ways  of  earth 

She  sought  her  king; 
The  snows  of  Winter  fell  before— 

She  walked  o'er  flowers  of  vanished  Spring; 
Into  the  Summer's  fragrant  heat 
She  bent  her  quest,  with  rapid  feet, 
Then  saddened ;  still  she  journeyed  down 
The  Autumn  hillsides,  bare  and  brown, 
Through  shadowy  eves  and  golden  morns ; 
And  lo     she  found  him — crowned  with  thorns. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


of  Presibent 


A  MONODY 

READ    IN    UKIAH,    CALIFORNIA,    MONDAY,   SEPTEMBER   26TH,    1881 


(From  the  Ukiah  Dispatch  and  Democrat.) 

MKS.  ANNA  M.  REED  then  stepped  to  the  front  and  read  the  following 
eloquent  and  most  beautiful  monody  on  the  death  of  him  who  has  gone  from  earth's 
scenes  of  toil  and  trouble  to  the  realms  of  everlasting  life,  where  "  the  wicked  cease  from 
troubling"  and  the  "weary  be  at  rest;"  there  where  "the  small  and  the  great"  are 
gathered.  The  reading  was  almost  faultless,  and  the  impression  made  was  one  of  deep 
solemnity.  The  sentiments  are  those  of  a  truly  Christian  heart,  and  the  pathos  therein 
contained  awakened  the  tenderest  emotions. 


all  the  bells!  a  great  soul's  passed  away 
From  clouds  and  shadows  to  the  perfect  day  ; 
The  wasted  garment  that  is  left  behind 
Must  be  to  ashes  and  to  dust  consigned. 
The  tears  of  suffering  death  has  wiped  away, 
But  who  shall  dry  the  eyes  of  those  who  stay — 
The  aged  mother  and  the  faithful  wife? 
The  children  wailing  for  that  ended  life  ? 
The  nation  calling  for  the  leader  slain, 
Who  long  weeks  languished  on  his  bed  of  pain? 
Toll  all  the  bells,  beat  low  the  muffled  drum ; 
In  long  procession  mourning  millions  come 
To  honor  him  who,  in  a  land  of  laws, 
By  lawless  hand  has  died,  without  a  cause. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 

Beside  the  ocean,  that,  with  measured  surge, 
Chanted  his  first  and  grandest  funeral  dir«-e  — 

o  o 

Sublimest  minstrel  at  the  feet  of  God; 
It  still  sang  on,  while  fell  the  mystic  rod 
And  moaned  a  requiem  for  the  parting  soul, 
Soaring  beyond  this  little  world's  control. 
No  human  voice  may  sing  of  him  so  well, 
Nor  all  the  grandeur  of  his  history  tell  ; 
But  to  his  memory,  out  of  many  lands, 
Will  struggling  genius  lift  aspiring  hands 
To  him  who  fortune's  darkest  frowns  withstood, 
And  kept  his  every  aim  still  great  and  good— 
Who  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  of  fame 
With  life  unblemished  and  unsullied  name  — 
A  grand  rebuke  to  every  weaker  heart 
That  tempted,  turneth  from  the  better  part  ; 
Reproaching  those  who,  like  the  one  of  old, 
Their  birthright  for  a  "mess  of  pottage"  sold. 
His  mind,  untrammeled,  was  as  broad  as  Earth; 
His  heart  was  centered  at  his  family  hearth  — 
He  made  his  home  a  type  of  all  things^seem 
Of  which  the  honest  Christian  soul  can  dream, 
Fit  emblem  of  that  home  in  fairer  lands 
Where  mansions  wait,  not  built  by  .humanhands. 


OS  IHK 


4  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 

The  annals  of  the  past  one  truth  repeat 
Of  those,  whose  lives  with  greatness  were  replete — 
This  fact,  more  eloquent  than  all  beside, 
Whate'er  their  history,  they  all  have  died. 
Sceptre  or  crown,  the  pride  of  place  or  power 
To  frail  mortality  loaned  but  for  an  hour, 
When  death  had  pointed  to  the  solemn  bier, 
They  learned  the  mockery  of  all  things  here  ; 
Sowing  that  others  might  the  harvest  reap, 
Along  the  wayside  they  have  gone  to  sleep — 
Tired  of  the  treasures  that  the  years  may  rust, 
Tired  of  the  things  that  are  but  sordid  dust,  [steal, 
Tired  of  the  gold  that  thieves  break  through  and 
Tired  of  the  wrongs  successive  years  reveal — 
The  graves  of  such,  like  landmarks,  strew  the  sod, 
Pointing  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 

But  though  the  souls  of  men  like  him  we  mourn 
On  waves  of  mystery  are  beyond  us  borne — 
A  grateful  world  their  names  perpetuate, 
And  well  may  strive  their  deeds  to  emulate ; 
For  though  they  drift  beyond  the  tides  of  fame, 
We  feel,  indeed,  they  have  not  lived  in  vain. 
A  proud  inheritance  has  this  one  left 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON     REED. 

To  all  his  loved  ones  and  the  land  bereft— 

His  pure  example  may  the  world  defy— 

His  glorious  principles  can  never  die; 

Nor  that  so  blessed  and  so  heaven-sent, 

On  which  its  authors  based  our  government, 

Where  earnest  manhood,  by  its  simple  worth, 

Depends  not  on  the  accident  of  birth— 

By  honest  labor,  without  gold  to  buy, 

May  earn  and  reach  its  stations  proud  and  high. 

Oh  !   let  the  flags  droop  low — toll  all  the  bells ; 
We  lay  him  down  amid  our  last  farewells. 
Under  the  earth,  with  loving  tributes  dressed, 
Do  we  resign  him  to  his  lasting  rest ; 

c!3  O 

And  to  Columbia,  still  safe  and  free, 
We  trust  the  honor  of  his  memory; 
As  turns  his  sacred  clay  to  kindred  sod, 
His  martyred  spirit  finds  repose  with  God. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


51 N   the  brush  fence  by  the  lane 
I  hear  the  stormbirds  crying, 
And  I  know  the  winter  rain 

Soon  will  beat  where  thou  art  lying; 
For  the  wind  and  rain  are  near, 

When  the  stormbirds  are  a-crying. 
A  brave,  bright,  winter  rose 

Taps  the  window  where  I'm  sitting; 
Its  heart  with  beauty  glows, 

While  the  autumn  hours  are  flitting; 
It  taps  the  silent  pane 

Of  the  window  where  I'm  sitting. 
The  south  wind  kisses  light 

o 

Its  petals,  curved  and  folded, 
Like  a  picture  warm  and  bright, 

Close  in  the  heart  enfolded— 
Like  a  dream  of  love  and  youth, 

In  the  heart  of  age  enfolded. 
And  it  speaks  to  me  of  thee, 

While  the  stormbirds  are  a-crying, 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

Though  thy  face  I  cannot  see, 

Thy  memory  is  lying 
In  the  winter  of  my  heart, 

Best,  brightest  and  undying. 
I  dream  of  thee  so  dear, 

Before  the  woodfire  glowing ; 
I  hear  the  herd-bells  clear, 

And  the  cattle  softly  lowing  ; 
The  sounds  foretell  the  rain, 

While  the  fire  is  brightly  glowing. 
In  thought  I  pass  the  lane 

Where  stormbirds  are  a-crying, 
As  to  some  sacred  fane, 

To  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying, 
Through  fragrant  pine-wood  aisles 

Where  the  sunset  glow  is  dying; 
Where  one  can  not  hear  the  noise 

Of  a  footfall  on  the  mosses; 
Where  the  pine  leaves  lightly  poise 

Like  a  pile  of  russet  flosses; 
Where  the  rabbit  or  the  squirrel, 

With  silent  footstep,  crosses; 
Where  the  brake,  with  quiv'ring  fronds, 

Beside  the  gravestone  whispers 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

The  earliest  matin  songs, 

And  at  eve  the  sadder  vespers, 
That  the  night  wind  softly  taught 

The  leaves  to  chant  in  whispers. 
There  so  quietly  you  sleep, 

While  the  restless  winds  are  sighing, 
In  the  grave  so  dark  and  deep, 

Nor  heed  the  stormbircls  crying, 
Nor  the  tears  that  fall  like  rain, 

And  my  heart  within  me  dying. 
The  rose  taps  on  the  pane, 

And  the  stormbircls  are  a-crying, 
And  I  soon  will  hear  the  rain 

Beat  through  the  wind's  low  sighing, 
While  rose  leaves  flutter  clown 

On  the  grave  where  thou  are  lying. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON     REED, 


1789-1889 


CROSS  a  century  of  change 
We  reach  our  hands  to  thee— 
Toward  one  bright  and  changeless  thing, 
Thy  honored  memory. 

Along  the  battlements  of  Time 

No  hero  lived  and  died 
Whose  name  in  song-  and  deathless  rhvme 

O  J 

Is  uttered  with  such  pride. 

It  stirs  the  heart  of  free-born  men, 

And  whispers  to  the  slave 
The  truths  that  e'en  make  eloquent 

The  silence  of  thy  grave. 

OF 

No  stain  was  on  thy  grand  careefl.0  «  I  V  EH 51 
Of  lust,  or  pride  or  greed  ; 

-ri  1  i  j    i 

I  hy  sword  was  never  bared  because 
Of  some  unhallowed  creed. 


10          POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

O  Washington  !  if  from  the  realms 

Of  perfect  love  and  light 
The  immortal  thought  of  one  like  thee 

May  earthward  take  its  flight, 

Look  down  upon  this  land  to-day— 

Across  from  sea  to  sea — 
Thy  great  soul  will  be  thrilled  to  know 
How  much  we  honor  thee. 

We  ask  in  thy  dear  name  to  be 
Made  faithful  to  our  trust, 

And  lay  our  wreaths  of  immortelles 
Upon  thy  sacred  dust. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        11 


MOT  Time,  that  sacred  heritage  to  all, 

For  in  the  cycles  that  have  passed  away 
I  cannot  count  me  one  lost,  idle  day, 
Nor  opportunity;  to  fate's  most  meager  gift, 
I  have  been  eager,  heart  and  hand  to  lift. 
What  waste  could  then  my  faithful  life  befall  ? 

A  cheek  whose  roses  bloomed  for  eyes  so  blind, 
They  did  not  see  they  were  the  rarest  kind  ; 
Words  that  the  world  had  listened  for  for  years, 
Falling  unanswered  on  the  dullest  ears ; 
A  heart  worn  out — as  fond  as  ever  beat, 
Its  wine  of  life  spilled  at  unworthy  feet ; 
A  soul  so  tortured,  as  years  come  and  go, 
Its  wasted  treasure,  God  alone  can  know. 


12  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


'Retrospect 


is  a  witching-  mem'ry  my  heart  so  oft 
recalls— 

A  silver  cornet  ringing  above  the  palace  walls, 
Where  from  a  draperied  window  a  bright  young 

face  looked  down 
Upon  my  lady's  garden  that  graced  Yokaya's  town. 

Where  passion  flower  and  jasmine  diffused  a  fra 
grant  balm ; 

o 

Where  shone  the  brilliant  salvia    and    whispered 

pine  and  palm  ; 
The  willow  o'er  the  fountain,  with  fingers  long  and 

slim, 
Reached  to  the  sparkling  water  that    kissed    the 

fretted  brim, 
And  many  a  woodland  songster,  awearied  with  the 

heat, 
Bathed  in  the  cooling  crystal  and  sang  his  matin 

sweet. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         13 

O  days,  whose  dawn's  pink  splendor  waxed  to  a 

golden  noon ! 
O  perfume,  song  and  blossom,  in  life's  impassioned 

rune ! 

O  south  wind,  blowing  gently  the  petals  at  my  feet ! 
O  twilight,  stealing  over!   O  kisses,  rare  and  sweet! 
O  little  maiden,  singing  beside  the  stately  hall ! 
O  silver  cornet,  ringing  above  the  palace  wall ! 


CJertrube  cmb 


A  LAY  OF  YE  MODERN  KNIGHT  AND  LADY  FAIR. 


ITH  a  ring  of  hoofs  I  heard  them  pass, 
As  the  horses  spurned  the  brittle  grass ; 
A  youth  and  maid  of  our  modern  time, 
On  the  morning  side  of  life's  sweet  prime. 
Active  and  graceful,  and  fair  and  young 
As  any  that  poet  has  ever  sung  ; 
No  knight  of  old,  with  spurs  bedight 
Could  be  to  me  a  braver  sight, 
E'en  though  he  went  with  plume  and  glove 
To  joust  for  the  sake  of  his  lady  love. 


14         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

And  she — what  maid  of  olclen  time, 

Extolled  in  song  or  praised  in  rhyme, 

Compares  with  her,  whose  form  and  face 

Are  perfect  in  their  winsome  grace? 

They  rode  through  the  waning  Summer's  hours, 

Where  the  sunlight  sifted  in  golden  showers 

Through  the  woodland  aisles  in  a  solemn  hush, 

Through  the  firs  and  pine  and  hazel  brush, 

And  down  by  the  lessening  river's  brim 

Where  the  sedge,  with  fingers  long  and  slim, 

Reached  to  the  waters,  clear  and  cool, 

And  dabbled  in  each  shadowy  pool. 

Across  their  path  the  startled  deer 

Bounded  away  with  a  sudden  fear; 

The  grouse,  from  the  shade  of  the  deepest  wood, 

Drummed  and  called  to  their  mottled  brood. 

Again  and  again  was  softly  heard 

The  tender  fretting  of  some  bird 

That  o'er  her  nest,  in  a  shy  alarm, 

Hovered,  to  keep  her  young  from  harm  ; 

The  twittering  quail  to  cover  sped, 

The  silent  rabbit  as  quickly  fled. 

They  rode  away  through  the  pathways  dim 

To  the  redwood  forest's  farthest  rim. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         15 

While  the  sun  sank  down  in  the  Golden  West 
And  rested  awhile  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
Into  the  forest,  darkly  dim— 
I  dreamed  of  them — she  dreamed  of  him— 
And  he — not  on  the  tented  field, 
Where  there's  on'y  a  life  to  take  or  yield- 
Will  this  knight  of  mine  his  battle  wage  ; 
But  amidst  the  strife  of  this  wond'rous  age, 
Where  swords  are  rusting,  while  gallant  men 
Reach  nobler  vict'ries  by  tongue  or  pen  ; 
Where  the  proudest  destiny  ever  sought 
Is  to  rule  a  king-  in  the  realm  of  thought. 

<">  <"> 

And  what  of  her? — O  God  above! 

Keep  her,  and  shield  and  crown  with  love; 

The  only  thing  of  this  world  a  part 

That  is  worth  the  price  of  a  woman's  heart. 

They  have  ridden  away  through  the  rosy  light  — 

Ridden  away  from  sound  and  sight ; 

Fairer  than  ever  was  writ  or  suncr 

o 

To  the  clang  of  hoofs  their  laughter  rung. 
Into  the  future,  dim  and  unknown, 
They  will  go  on — but  I  am  alone, 
Dreaming  of  them — from  the  world  apart — 
Their  laughter  echoes  against  my  heart. 


.16          POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


JJunset 


E  evening's  genius  with  his  sworcl  of  flame 
Guards  well  the  portal  of  the  dying  clay ; 
His  lance  of  light  he  strikes  against  the  hills, 
Upon  the  highest  breaks  its  glancing  ray  ; 
He  marshals  grandly  on  a  crimson  sea 
His  cloudship  navy's  golden  argosy, 
Whose  flaunting  banner  in  the  sunset  glow 
Bids  brave  defiance  to  the  dark'ning  foe ; 
Who,  swift  advancing,  o'er  him  softly  flings 
The  purple  shadow  of  the  twilight's  wings, 
Till  war's  red  flush  before  the  night  wind's  breath 
Fades  out  into  the  sullen  gray  of  death, 
And  star-eyed  night,  prevailing  all  too  soon, 
Hangs  out  the  silver  sickle  of  the  moon. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


(Joob  fribay 


the  Saviour  died — suffered  the  Cruci 
fied, 

Yet  could  His  failing  eyes  see  the  repentant's  tear, 
Saying :  "In  Paradise  thou  shalt  with  Me  appear." 
"Father,  forgive!"  He  prayed;  such  blessed 

words  He  said, 
"  They  know  not  what  they  do."    This  in  the  face 

of  death, 

This  for  His  enemies,  asked  with  His  latest  breath. 
Yet  do  His  children  now  turn  from  His  face  and 

bow, 

Not  to  this  lowly  one ;  down  to  strange  gods  beside; 
And  in  their  lust  and  pride,  still  is  He  crucified. 

How  long  will  they  profane  His  pure  and  sacred 

name? 

Placing  His  holy  sign,  His  emblems  so  divine, 
In  midst  of  mockery,  on  each  unhallowed  shrine? 

"I   thirst!" — to  each  poor  heart,  struck  by  some 

poisoned  dart, 
Treading  the  narrow  way — ready  to  faint  and  fall, 


18        POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

To  the  parched  lips  that  cry,  earth  gives  her  bitter 

gall. 
Oh,  let   us   kneel   to-day!  kneel  in  the   dust  and 

pray, 
Cl.ose  to   His  bleeding  feet;    seeking   our  soul's 

relief, 
In  deep  repentant  grief— e'en  like  the  dying  thief. 

Jesus,  the  "Prince  of  Peace,"  when  shall  the  striv 
ing  cease  ? 

Dark  roll  the  waves  of  death ;  can  we  the  current 
stem? 

Seeing  at  last  Thy  face — touching  Thy  garment's 
hem? 

Forgive  each  idle  word  Thy  outraged  ears  have 
heard, 

Each  sinful  act  forgive ;  into  Thy  hands  receive 

At  death  our  sorrowing  souls,  that  they  may  live. 

This  day  the  Saviour  died — suffered  the  Crucified  ; 

Yet  He,  the  suppliant,  heard,  and  He  could  pity 
ing  see ; 

Saying:  "In  Paradise,  to-day,  thou  shalt  be 
with  Me." 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        19 


Christmas,  1890 


U^HEN,  'neath  the  stars  of  Bethlehem, 

The  angels  sang:  "Good  will  to  men," 
And  ''Peace  on  earth,"  a  promise  gave, 
Since  man  was  ransomed  from  the  grave, 
All  earth,  with  sweet  foreboding,  smiled, 
Because  was  born  a  homeless  child. 

A  million  spires  point  to  the  sky 

Where  He,  transfigured,  took  His  flight, 
Toward  that  great  unsleeping  Eye, 

Watching  o'er  death,  and  sin,  and  night. 
For  eighteen  hundred  years  has  been 

His  triumph  most  devoutly  sung, 
O'er  death,  and  sin,  and  suffering, 

In  every  clime — in  every  tongue. 

Yet,  while  the  organ  grandly  swells 
Within  our  great  cathedral  walls, 

Chime  answering  chime  of  silvery  bells, 
Upon  the  air  of  Christmas  falls. 


20  POEMS    OF    ANNA     MORRISON    REED. 

Fair  women,  decked  in  silk  and  lace, 
Go  warm  and  blest  to  softly  pray, 

And  hasten  to  each  sacred  place 

That  gladly  welcomes  Christmas  day. 

Oh,  iPrince  of  Peace,  who  lived  and  died ! 

Oh,  why  upon  this  holy  morn, 
When  sounds  and  scenes  of  reverence  tell 

This  was  the  day  that  Thou  wert  born, 
As  from  these  temples  of  our  pride 

The  happy  worshipers  have  filed, 
Why,  cold  and  hungry,  just  outside, 

Do  we  still  find  the  homeless  child? 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED.  21 


IN  MEMORY  OF  LEON. 


U^HERE  the  yellow  Feather  river 

Rolled  its  tide  afar, 
With  its  fruit,  an  orange  laden, 
Grew  at  Bidwell's  Bar. 

There  a  little  maid,  one  morning, 

Looking  on  the  scene, 
Tree  and  flower  and  fruit  were  mingled 

In  a  summer  dream. 

Steep  the  garden  terrace — steeper 

Was  the  mountain  side, 
Where  the  scarlet  trumpet  creeper 

Trailed  above  the  tide. 

Not  more  scarlet  was  the  blossom 

Than  her  dainty  lips, 
Like  twin  rose  leaves,  curved  and  folded, 

With  exquisite  tips. 


22         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

And  so  soft  and  brown  and  changing 

Were  her  tender  eyes, 
Like  a  pool  seen  late  in  summer 

Where  a  shadow  lies. 

In  her  hands  were  tiger  lilies, 
Gathered  ere  the  sun 

Had  the  time  to  kiss  each  chalice- 
Golden,  every  one. 

As  she  gazed  with  gentle  longing- 
Through  the  lambent  air, 

A  boy  came  running  down  the  hillside, 
Crowned  with  tawny  hair. 

Blue  his  eyes — yes,  blue  as  heaven, 

And  his  form  and  face 
Promise  bore  of  manly  beauty, 

In  their  strength  and  grace. 

O'er  the  garden  wall  he  bounded, 

o 

Plucking  fruit  and  flower, 
Tossed  them  to  the  little  maiden 
In  a  fragrant  shower. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        23 

Blushing,  then,  she  thanked  him  sweetly, 

With  a  glad  surprise 
Dimpling  all  her  smiling  features, 

Shining  from  her  eyes. 

While  a  lady  from  the  mansion, 

High  above  the  tide, 
"  Leon,  Leon,"  softly  calling, 
Called  him  from  her  side. 

*  #  4fc  *  *  *  # 

As  she  bore  her  treasures  homeward 

Over  hill  and  stream, 
All  her  pure  young  soul  was  lifted 

In  a  sunny  dream. 

Through  the  future  rode  to  meet  her, 

On  a  steed  so  rare, 
A  blue-eyed  prince,  in  royal  velvet, 

With  long  golden  hair. 

##::#:*#:*::# 

And  so  shrined  in  her  fond  mem'ry, 

Lived  from  day  to  day, 
Crowned  with  curls  of  rippling  splendor, 

Her  own  prince  alway. 


24  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 

On  life's  sea,  uneven,  drifting, 

Each  the  other's  face  did  see 
Seldom  ;  and  death's  fiat  falling, 

Parted  them  eternally. 
******* 
Not  one  orange  tree,  but  thousands 

Grace  the  plains  of  Butte, 
And  like  sands  upon  the  sea  shore 

Lies  their  golden  fruit. 

o 

But  one  tree,  where  miners,  delving, 

Left  but  seam  and  scar, 
Crowning  all  the  desolation 

In  the  past  afar; 

With  its  fruit  and  creamy  blossoms, 

Each  a  separate  star, 
One  no  other  tree  can  rival 

Grew  at  Bidwell's  Bar. 

And,  alas!   Time  sees  the  passing 

Of  all,  good  and  fair- 
Cold  his  heart — low  in  the  grave  mold 

Lies  his  golden  hair. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


\,  to  and  fro — Time's  wearied  slave — 
I  1 

I  come  and  go,  and  pass  her  grave  ; 

A  level  lane — three  roads  divide, 
Where  I  would  fain  oft  pause  beside, 
I  still  pass  by,  on  either  side. 


God  help  me !     As  the  whip  of  care 
Still  urges  on  my  lagging  feet, 
No  time  to  pray,  no  time  to  greet, 

And  save  me  ere  I  quite  despair. 
Since  she  is  lying  with  the  dead, 
I  have  no  place  to  lay  my  head, 

And  weep  for  all  that  I  have  borne. 

I  pass  her  grave,  nor  pause  to  mourn  ; 
My  heart  alone  stays  with  the  dead. 


26         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


GO  tye  Jlattoe  p0ns  of  tlje 


the  Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West, 
The  genius  of  this  bright  century  sings, 
In  a  land  where  the  kiss  of  the  sun  on  her  breast 
Gives  life  to  a  thousand  beautiful  things. 

Where  the  golden  orange  and  scarlet  fire 
Of  fragrant  pomegranate  blossoms  shine  ; 

Where  tropical  beauty  and  northern  balm 
Blend  in  the  shadows  of  palm  and  pine. 

To  the  Pioneer  and  the  Native  Son 

Give  honor,  O  Land  of  the  golden  West! 

One's  work  is  over,  but  just  begun 

For  the  other — for  honor  and  fame  the  quest. 

Happy  the  homes  in  a  radiant  land, 

And  happy  the  maidens  who  will  be  blest, 

In  a  country  united  in  heart  and  hand, 

By  the  love  of  the  sons  of  the  Golden  West. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         27 

To  the  Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West 
The  Century's  Genius  prophetic  sings— 

Not  alone  of  the  past,  but  a  future  blest 
By  a  countless  treasure  of  beautiful  things. 

September  9th,  1890. 


"1  thirst" 

"  Darling,  you  may  always  know  that  I  am  as 
constant  as  the  sun." 

^~pHINK  you  the  traveler  on  the  desert  waste, 
Dying  of  thirst,  would  stiil  refuse  to  taste 
When  loving  hands  too  gladly  offered  up 
To  the  parched  lips  the  overflowing  cup? 
This  have  I  done;  yet  with  beseeching  hands, 
Famished,  my  soul  cries  from  life's  desert  sands. 
As  to  the  mirage  returns  the  weary  eyes, 
Or  as  the  lost  look  back  to  Paradise, 
So  to  thy  image,  from  this  barren  way, 
My  tortured  spirit  turns  day  after  day. 
Ere  it  is  yielded,  duty-worn  and  faint, 
Uttering  for  thee  its  hopeless,  last  complaint, 
Can  it  be  sin,  from  this  far  waste  of  pain, 
To  crave  some  token  of  thy  truth  again? 


28         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


is  Jveuoteb  to  Jj)J[eiTioTaies  of 


SAILED  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
By  coral  reefs  and  isles  of  balm, 
Where  orange  groves  and  silvery  palm 
By  faint  spice  winds  were  gently  fanned, 
Until  I  reached  a  tropic  land. 
And  with  three  thou  and  miles  between 
The  shores  whereon  two  oceans  fret, 
I  bravely  said,  "  I  will  forget," 
And  there  beneath  the  Southern  Cross 
I  crept  out  in  the  breathless  night ; 
My  heart  was  breaking,  and  the  stars 
Shone  dimly  on  my  fevered  sight— 
Ah  !  vain  is  change  of  time  or  place  ; 
In  heaven  itself  I  see — thy  face! 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED.  29 


A  ROUND  a  trackless  waste  of  sky 

A  dead  world  haunts  this  world  of  ours, 
Upon  whose  pulseless  breast  no  bird 
May  voice  its  joy  among  the  flowers— 
Whence  life  and  love  and  all  have  fled 
And  left  it  silent,  cold  and  dead. 
The  only  thing  that  still  seems  bright, 
The  blessed  sun's  reflected  lio-ht, 

O  ' 

The  tender  radiance  so  serene 

That  falls  in  moonlight's  silvery  sheen. 

As  on  my  heart  these  shadowy  thoughts 

Had  left  the  while  their  sombre  trace, 

A  shadow  from  the  weary  world 

Fell  over  Luna's  ghost-like  face. 


30         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


Bonnet 


cannot  come  to  me, 
But  with  this  gift  that  God  has  given 
I  can  reach  out,  o'er  land  and  sea, 
O'er  barriers  of  earth  and  heaven, 
And  touch  your  heart  exquisitely. 
The  bird  caged  with  a  golden  wire 
Sings  not  always  for  those  who  feed, 
Supplying  every  grosser  need  ; 
Above  the  tumult  of  her  fate 
She  listens,  and  she  hears  her  mate ; 
She  dreams  a  dream  of  vanished  Springs, 
She  beats  her  wings,  and  sings,  and  sings — 
The  world  says,  " Sweetly  sings" — but,  oh! 
You  hear  the  undertone  of  woe. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        31 


JjE  died  in  Venice — citadel  of  songs, 

To  which  for  ages  all  romance  belongs  ; 
At  whose  proud  shrine  the  poet  and  the  sage 
Have  left  the  offering  of  every  age. 

He  died  in  Venice  ;  but  with  dreaming  eyes, 
By  the  Rialto  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
And  in  and  out  a  hundred  water-ways, 
For  years  he  glided  through  the  perfect  clays. 

He  died  in  Venice ;  but  through  all  he  dreamed 
The  golden  sunshine  of  Italia  streamed, 
Where  centered  all  those  memories  that  endure 
Around  the  home  of  Tasso  and  the  Moor. 

He  died  in  Venice,  but  his  work  was  done 
Long  years  before  his  sands  of  life  were  run — 
So  ideal  days  he  lived  that  did  beseem 
The  closing  visions  of  a  poet's  dream. 


32          POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

He  died  in  Venice,  where  the  lapping  sea 
Kept  time  to  that  diviner  minstrelsy  [fraught 

With   which   his  gifted   soul    through    time    was 
To  live  eternal  in  the  world  of  thought. 

But  the  worn  garment  that  is  left  behind 
They  bear  away  to  rest  among  its  kind, 
In  that  far  land  where,  in  the  Abbey's  shade, 
Beside  congenial  dust,  it  will  be  laid. 

A  poet's  love,  a  poet's  life  and  death, 
Blest  from  the  earliest  to  his  latest  breath  ; 
But  of  all  things  that  could  his  age  befall, 
To  die  in  Venice  seems  the  best  of  all. 


fragment 


y  Y  heart  has  grown  so  heavy  with  the  burden  of 
its  care, 

That  to  Sorrow's  gloomy  portal  I  have  fled  and 
left  no  trace  ; 

But  like  moths  from  out  the  clarknes  to  the  light 

of  thy  loved  face, 
My  thoughts  go  fluttering  ever  from  the  night  of 

my  despair. 


•  POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


FT  have  I  smiled,  when  in  youth's  halcyon  time, 

I  heard  in  song,  or  read  in  deathless  rhyme, 
How  gallant  knights,  bedight  in  plume  and  glove, 
Had  met  and  fought,  and  gladly  died  for  love. 
How  ladies,  too,  and  maidens  wondrous  fair, 
Had  wept,  and  pined,  and  died  in  love's  despair; 
How  Guinivere  her  crown  and  fame  forgot, 
And  sweet  Elaine  had  died  for  Launcelot  ; 
How  Cleopatra,  on  the  storied  Nile, 
Did  Antony  from  all  the  world  beguile  ; 
How  brave  Colonna  mourned  beside  the  sea 
Her  worshiped  lord,  till  death  had  set  her  free; 
How  Abelard  the  cloister  vainly  sought, 
And  saintly  Heloise  her  vows  forgot. 
Oft  then  I  smiled ;  for  love,  in  that  bright  hour, 
Seemed  to  my  fancy  but  a  boasted  power  ; 
But  now  these  things,  prefiguring  my  fate, 

But  faintly  symbol  all  I  know  and  feel  ; 
Thfe  ardent  passion,  time  cannot  abate, 

Since  on  my  soul,  love  set  his  magic  seal. 


34  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


to  Progress 


PRIZE    POEM 

Awarded  the  gold  medal  by  the  Agricultural  Association  of  Lake  and  Mendocino 
Counties,  1887. 


(7JENIUS  of  this  grand  century,  and  guardian  of 
the  free, 

Who  can  a  tribute  worthily  bring  from  our  hearts 
to  thee? 

When,  'neath  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  angels  sang 
that  blessed  morn, 

"  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  all  men,"  Progress, 
thou  wert  also  born. 

The  ages  past  had  never  known  thee,  for  man  un 
just  oppressed 

His  fellow  man;  who,  suffering,  saw  might  as  right 
confessed. 

Ask  Egypt's  hordes,  who  toiled  as  helpless  slaves 

To  build  her  kings  imperishable  graves  ; 

Or  Grecian  art,  that  on  each  heathen  fane 

Left  us  the  dower  of  some  immortal  name ; 

Or  Rome's  imperial  grandeur  crumbling  down, 

If  it  was  Progress  marked  their  great  renown. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED,  35 

No!  since  the  world  and  all  its  works  began, 

Have  Art  and  Science  been  the  slaves  of  man  ; 

Degraded  oft,  ignoble  scopes  to  fill, 

To  suit  the  vagaries  of  the  human  will. 

So  Freedom's  smile  o'er  Superstition's  horde 

Accomplished  more  than  power  of  fire  and  sword; 

While  Christian  liberty,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Enlightens  all,  and  makes  the  poorest  free ; 

And  things  that  were  but  dreams  to  Greece  and 

Rome, 

With  us  to  grand  realities  have  grown. 
A  homeless  child  so  touched  the  human  soul, 
He  made  the  world  akin — one  wondrous  whole. 
His  story  echoes  down  the  aisles  of  time, 
In  every  language  told  by  tongues  sublime; 
Nor  will  it  cease  till  every  land  has  heard 
The  precious  promise  of  His  sacred  word, 
That  truth  and  justice  shall  prevail  alone — 
Where    they    are    not,    Progress,    thou    art    not 

known. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA  .MORRISON    REED. 


£ettoeen 


JUILES  are  between  us,  and  the  relentless  night 

Follows  the  sullen  day  in  sombre  flight; 
Above  the  pine-woods  in  the  distant  west 
The  clouds  lie  piled,  a  burden  of  unrest. 
I  know  you  love  me,  but  the  chains  that  hold 
Were  forged  by  destiny — relentless — cold  ; 
They  keep  me  from  you,  like  a  serpent's  fold. 
But  I  cast  all  from  me,  that  my  fate  has  wrought, 
And  hasten  to  you  in  my  anguished  thought. 
Thank  God !   no  other  holds  the  place  I  crave 
On  earth,  or  hidden  in  the  solemn  grave 
No  woman  rivals  me  ;  whate'er  has  been 
In  this  impassioned  dream,  I  only  sin. 
I  cannot  tell  you,  hero  of  my  heart, 
How  much  I  love  you  when  so  far  apart. 
The  world's  best  teaching  holds  us — honor,  pride — 
But  in  a  dream,  unspeaking,  by  your  side, 
I  still  may  follow,  safe  from  sound  and  sight, 
While  the  relentless  day  closes  in  sullen  night. 


.POEMS.  OF:  ANN  A    'MORRISON  -  REED.  8? 


DETWEEN  the  roses  of  the  May 

Looks  out  the  radiant  face  of  June;  >.... 

Blushing,  she  seems  afraid  to  cross 

The  threshold  of  the  Spring  so  soon ;  k 

While  my  heart  echoes,  beat  for  beat, 

The  tread  of  her  reluctant  feet. 

Passionate  languor  in  her  eyes, 

The  kiss  of  Summer  on  her  mouth— 

I  love  her  harmony  of  birds— 

I  love  her  soft  winds  of  the  South— 

Her  cumulus  clouds  that  grandly  rise 

Across  the  sunlight  of  her  skies. 

A  lily  with  its  laughing  lips 

Opes  as  she  smiles — -a  star-like  shine 

Thrills  me  from  heart  to  finger-tips 
With  fragrance  of  the  jessamine  ; 

A  clove  her  gentle  note  prolongs, 

Answering  the  last  late  robin's  songs. 

As  here  I  fondly  weave  my  dreams, 

While  waiting — face  to  face  with  June— 
Of  you,  my  darling — beautiful 

As  bird-song,  blossom  and  perfume- 
Lulled  on  the  Summer's  slumberous  breast, 
I  dream,  and  know  that  I  am  blest. 


38         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 


Bonnet 


JyE  are  so  far  apart — even  from  ocean  to  ocean — 
As  a  nun  would  tell  her  beads,  only  with  more 

devotion, 

Counting  the  days  when  we  met, 
As  the  chain  slips  over  my  fingers, 
Over  each  thought  of  you  my  heart  caressingly 

lingers. 

The  long,  bright  lance  of  the  sun, 
Reaching  away  from  the  sunset, 
Touches  my  hair  and  eyes, 
And  the  lips  you  kissed,  when  you  told  me, 
Constant  you'd  always  be  while  the  sun    in    his 

shining  should  hold  me. 
The  heart  and  the  lips  you  love,  grow  warm  his 

red  rays  under. 
Constant   I  know  you  are,  though  we  are  so  far 

asunder. 
God  bless  and  keep  you  so  on  the  shore  of  another 

ocean— 
As  a  nun  her  beads,  the  hours  I   tell,  only  with 

more  devotion. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED,  39 


£abes  In  &rms 


A    SATIRE 

Suggested  by  seeing  the  above  notice  at  the  entrance  to  one  of  our  fashionable  theatres. 


HILE  Fashion  trips  within  the  door 

That  Thespis  opens  wide  before  her, 
Pleasure  and  Vice,  and  many  more, 

Beside  their  goddess  quickly  enter, 
Folly  comes  in,  and  Crime,  her  brother — 

All  children  of  the  same  vile  mother ; 
The  courtesan,  with  painted  charms — 
But  listen,  not  "the  babe  in  arms." 

For  Innocence  there  is  no  place 

In  all  this  grand  and  brilliant  throng; 
'Tis  well,  for  on  its  modest  face 

Blushes  must  burn  for  scene  and  song ; 
Or,  if  unconscious,  still  its  cries 

Might  through  the  tearful  silence  steal, 
Marring  the  sense  of  ears  and  eyes 

That  drink  the  rantings  of  Camille. 

Camille,  sin-stamped,  her  life  of  crime 
Can  never  touch  an  honest  heart, 


40  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON'  REED,. 

E'en  painted  by  the  fingers  fine 

Of  sentiment  and  finished  art, 
Forgive  all  like  her,  and  wish  them  good, 
But  ask  not  true,  pure  womanhood 
To  shed  the  sympathetic  tear 
Over  her  guilty,  weak  career. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Over  the  rich  man's  palace  gate 

Those  words  might  well  be  placed  quite  often, 
When  nothing  can  his  craving  sate, 

o  fc>  .   -  - 

His  greed  for  power,  and  pride  of  station. 
Some  prince  of  style,  with  endless  means, 
Whose  social  traits — a  strano-e  transition 

o 

From  when  he  lived  on  "pork  and  beans"- 
Now  swell  with  limitless  ambition. 

His  wife,  in  fashion's  trappings  decked, 
Now  leads  a  band  of  kindred  spirits, 

Of  whom  she  is  the  "great  elect," 
To  " kettledrums"  and  other  places; 

Forgetting  how,  in  earlier  times, 

She  once  scoured  kettles  in  the  mines 

Before  she  hoisted  o'er  her  charms 

The  motto  of  "  No  babes  in  arms." 


.POEMS.  OF    ANNA/MORRISON     REED. 

Her  fragile  health  admits  no  more 

The  cares  that  earnest  woman  busy;, 
Though  grand  receptions  by  the  score 
Cannot  fatigue,  nor  dancing  weary. 
"  A  babe  so  breaks  a  mother's  rest!-" 
As  all  her  thousand  friends  attest, 
While  gossiping  their  usual  way 
Of  husbands  who  are  apt  to  stray, 

And  have  a  liking  for  their  club, 

Where  everybody  smokes  and  swaggers, 

While  telling  cronies  where's  the  rub 
In  politics  and  other  matters. 

A  bad  state  of  affairs  at  best, 

For  husbands,  wives,  and  all  the  rest. 

No  sleep  at  Nature's  fittest  time— 
The  night  filled  with  unholy  revel. 

What  wonder  that  their  faces  wear 
Too  oft  the  look  of  heartless  devils? 

And  men  who  could  have  loved,  at  rest, 

A  baby  on  a  mother's  breast — 

To  view  with  interest  are  agog 

A  "thing"  that  pets  a  poodle-dog. 


42  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED, 

The  eyes  of  faith  have  looked  beyond 

This  life,  that  even  at  its  best 
Is  filled  with  care  and  pain  untold — 

Its  triumphs  filled  with  strange  unrest, 
And  pictured  an  existence  grand 
And  glorious  in  an  unknown  land, 
Where  all  that  pure  in  heart  have  been 
As  little  children  enter  in. 

While  over  all  the  hopeless  dead, 

Entering  at  last  the  gates  of  doom, 
That  sentence  unrevoked  and  dread, 

God's  fiat  traces  in  the  gloom, 
To  meet  and  blast  despairing  eyes 
That  turn  away  from  Paradise 
And  read  above  Hell's  wild  alarms : 
u  There  enter  here  no  babes  in  arms." 


i 


fragment 

[IN  AN  ALBUM.] 

WILL  not  wish  you  gold,  or  love,  or  fame — 
Too  many  sins,  committed  in  their  name, 
Sweep  through  the  ages,  and  with  dark  surprise 
Their  annals  blast  the  light  of  artless  eyes. 
Virtue  alone  can  bless  and  crown  your  youth, 
Therefore  I  consecrate  its  days  to  truth. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        43 


ttye  t(niuersity  of 


L  0  S~t"      M  ECCA  of  my  tem,  youth, 

Between  thy  shrine  and  my  sad  heart, 
The  years  with  pallid  faces  stand 
And  hold  us  far  apart. 

I  reached  aspiring  hands 

Hung'ring  toward  thy  "mount  of  light;" 
God  filled  them,  measuring  not  my  plans — 

He  doeth  all  things  right. 

His  tasks  appointed  well, 

To  idle  heart-break  not  allied, 

Gave  nature  as  my  "  Alma  Mater" 
And  duty  for  my  guide. 

But  echoes  of  thy  fame 

Waft  by  on  wings  of  memory, 

And  day  by  day  my  constant  thoughts 
Like  prilgrims  go  to  thee. 


44  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


of  ^eneral  Qrant 


A    MONODY 

READ    BY   THE    AUTHOR   AT   THE    MEMORIAL    EXERCISES   AT    UKIAH, 
MENDOCINQ    COUNTY,    CALIFORNIA,    AUGUST   STH,    1885. 


HO  has  not  stood  within  the  chilling  gloom 
Where   some    bright    pathway   ended    in    the 

tomb, 

And  from  its  portal  could  no  longer  trace 
A  future — blank,  for  want  of  one  loved  face 
Then,  dazed  and  broken,  blindly  faltering  back, 
Resumed  the  round  of  life's  repellent  track  ? 
What  family  circle  has  not  broken  been 
By  this  decree,  provoked  by  man's  first  sin  ? 
This  awful  mystery ;  whose  fingers  cold 
Can  touch  impartially  the  young  or  old, 
Point  out  the  fairest  for  the  fatal  dart, 
And  still  the  beating  of  the  noblest  heart. 
No  pride  of  station  and  no  boast  of  power 
Prolongs  a  life  for  even  one  short  hour. 
The  cottager  or  claimant  of  a  throne, 
On  God's  great  mercy  both  depend  alone ; 


•  POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         45 

No  other  power,  at  last,  endures  to  save, 
And  all  distinctions  level  in  the  crave. 

£5 

Toil's  implement — the  monarch's  royal  crown, 

At  that  dark  threshold  are  alike  laid  clown. 

We  come  as  beggars  from  the  Master's  hand, 

And  at  life's  close,  we  still  as  suppliants  stand — - 

Oh  !  may  His  mercy,  like  a  mantle,  fall 

At  that  dread  hour,  in  chanty,  on  all. 

What,  though  our  burdens  be  of  pain  and  care, 

So  great  they  seem,  more  than  the  heart  can  bear; 

Be  patient  still,  we  all  will  lay  them  soon 

Down  by  the  portals  of  the  quiet  tomb; 

And  in  the  silence  of  that  awful  shade, 

How  many  a  fault  to  nothingness  will  fade! 

The  hoarded  treasures  of  the  countless  years 

Have  been  resigned  before  that  shrine  of  tears. 

For  there,  each  heart  has  said  a  last  " good-bye," 

And  broken  there  is  every  earthly  tie— 

And  when  we  hold  the  wreaths  that  triumph  gave, 

We  all  turn  back  to  lay  them  on  some  grave. 

'"*         *         *         #         *         *         *         *         # 

What  meed  of  praise — what  tribute  shall  we  pay 
To  him  the  nation  meets  to- mourn  to-day? 


46         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

Who  danger's  gauntlet  oft  in  safety  ran  ; 
Who  lived  a  hero,  but  to  die  a  man. 
He  was  but  human — but  his  faults  were  few ; 
His  life  was  honest,  and  his  purpose  true. 
Blame  not  that  noble  one,  that  fortune  led 
His  feet  where  war  had  made  the  pathway  red— 
His  country  called;  he  did  her  grief  assuage, 
And  saved  America  her  heritage. 
Where  wrong-  has  been,  alone,  God  knoweth  best, 
And  there  alone  His  punishment  will  rest. 
But  no  just  thought  confuses  now  with  him 
That  awful  scourging  of  a  people's  sin. 
Over  his  coffin,  sorrowing  to-day, 
Bow'd  are  the  vet'rans  of  the  blue  and  gray. 
Over  his  grave,  unworthy  strife  will  cease, 
And  North  and  South  clasp  hands  in  lasting  peace. 
The  flag,  whose  honor  he  has  saved,  hangs  low ; 
And  all  the  land  is  draped  in  signs  of  woe  ; 
And  many  a  cheek  with  honest  tears  is  wet, 
Now,  that  at  last  his  star  of  life  is  set. 
But  though  the  flowers  we  bring  be  doomed  to  fade, 
And  loving  hands  that  weave  them  shall  be  laid 
To  moulder  back  into  the  common  clay, 
Forgotten — like  the  tributes  of  this  day — 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.        47 

He  leaves  one  thing,  that  will  not  be  forgot, 

To  live  immortal  in  the  people's  thought. 

When  liberty,  enlightening  the  world, 

All  false  usurpers  from  their  thrones  has  hurled  ; 

When  creeds  no  more  perplex  fanatic  fools, 

Who  live  by  rote,  and  worship  God  by  rules  ; 

When  parties  die  —  and  prejudice  is  dead  — 

And  ignorance  —  and  in  their  narrow  stead, 

A  people  live,  by  truth  and  reason  led— 

A  Christian  people  o'er  the  whole  earth  spread  — 

Then  will  the  greatness  of  this  man  be  known  ; 

Though  back  to  dust  the  monumental  stone 

Has  crumbled,  his  memory  will  shine 

Throughout  the  ages  of  all  coming  time. 

So  fear  not  now,  within  the  Nation's  sight, 

This  glorious  epitaph  of  him  to  write  : 

He  leaves,  emblazoned  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 

The  matchless  splendor  of  a  deathless  name. 


Of 

UNIVERSITY 


48  -POEMS    OF    ANNA  'MORRISON    REED. 


5]  DO  begrudge  to  time  this  lip's  fond  red, 

This  heart's  warm  pulse,  that  beat  with  hope 

and  truth 
Through    all    the    years,   while    lingered    yet    my 

youth, 

By  love's  assurance  most  divinely  fed. 
Into  the  face  of  pain  I  bravely  looked, 
Nor  shrank  before  the  horrid  face  of  death. 
While  I  could  hope  to  meet  thy  constant  eyes, 
For  me  life's  desert  seemed  a  paradise. 
But  O  my  darling !    I  am  sad  to-night  ; 
Upon  the  edge  of  duty  and  of  care 
The  finer  fabrics  of  my  life  are  worn; 
My  ardent  being  feels  a  strange  despair — 
That  time  prevails;  and  e'en  for  thy  dear  sake, 
The  heart  that  was  so  brave  will  surely  break. 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED.  49 


J^ortrait  of  a  oEP5E 

Lines  dedicated  to  the  hard-working  and  poorly-paid  artists  of  California. 


1WIY  pretty  little  Gypsy,  you've  caused  me  bitter 
woe  ; 

But  how,  my  little  Gypsy,  no  man  shall  ever  know. 
For  I  shall  never  tell  it,  and  you  will  never  speak, 

And  so,  between  the  two  of  us,  the  secret  we  will 
keep. 

Your  eyes  are    dark    and    solemn,    beneath    each 
raven  tress, 

As  though  you  sought  to  question   the  cause  of 
my  distress  ; 

And  so,  although  you've  brought  me   a    grief    I 
shall  not  name, 

I  like  to  sit  and  watch  you,  and  I  love  you  all  the 
same. 

You  have  never  told  my  fortune,  but  you  comfort 
and  you  bless, 

For    your    eyes,  with    tender  glances,  are  like  a 
mute  caress, 

As  with  fawn-like  grace  and  freedom  you  stand 
and  look  at  me, 

Your  lovely  arm  entwining  the  sturdy  greenwood 
tree. 


50         POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED. 

And  I  thank  a  kindly  Providence  that  in  this  age 

of  greed, 
When  every  selfish  worldling  makes  gain  his  only 

creed, 
There  are  a  few  brave  spirits  who,  in  the  sordid 

strife, 
Catch  and  hold,  with  pen  or  pencil,  the  lovelier 

things  of  life. 

A  bit  of  charming  landscape,  an  eye  alight  with 

love— 
A  thought  that  inspiration  has  sought  and  found, 

above 
The  plane,  where  many  thousands  toil  and  strive 

till  life  has  flown, 
To  build  up,  for  the  thankless,  their  piles  of  brick 

and  stone. 

The  hand  whose  cunning  caught  you,  from  fancy 

or  from  fact, 
Whose  brush  on  canvas  fixed  you,  with  genius  and 

with  tact, 
My  gratitude  shall  follow  along  Time's  checkered 

flight, 
For  to  me  my  little    Gypsy  will    bring   life-long 

delight. 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         51 


glabbest  tyear) 


E  gladdest  heart  in  all  the  world  is  mine — 
And  yet,  like  showers  that  fall  aslant  the  shine 
Of  April  suns,  and,  in  a  tearful  way, 
Deny  the  radiant  splendor  of  the  day, 
This  sobbing  breath — these  tears  upon  my  cheek, 
Give  sad  denial  to  the  words  I  speak. 
For  in  the  years  betwixt  this  and  the  grave, 
And  that  long  rest  its  solemn  silence  brings, 
While  shines  for  us  the  blest  and  constant  sun, 
Through    Autumn's    sere    and    flower  -  encircled 

Springs, 

There  waits  no  day  that  we  may  call  our  own 
Upon  this  sin-cursed  earth — the  slave  of  time — 
When  I  may  answer  you  and  tell  you  why 
The  gladdest  heart  in  all  the  world  is  mine. 


52  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


^acramento 


the  moonlight,   o'er    the  sidewalk,  long  the 
shadows  fall, 

And  trace  so  restlessly  their  shape  upon   the  con 
vent  wall ; 
While  my  heart,  with  all  its  longing  to  that  city 

far  and  dim, 

Turns  to-night,  despite  of  distance — is  again  with 
him. 

And  upon  his  face  I  see  the  shadow  of  the  years, 

As  he  might,  upon  my  own,  read  the  traces  of 
my  tears — 

And  still  nearer  than  the  nearest  I  am  with  him  in 
my  thought ; 

Does  my  spirit  seek  his  presence,  wild  with  yearn 
ing,  thus  unsought? 

No;  and  so  it  reaches,  in  the  night  so  sweet  and 

still, 
Over    rock   and    plain    and    meadow,  o'er    valley 

land  and  hill, 


POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED.  53 

Over  all  the  years  of  hunger,  for  the  blessing  of 

his  smile, 
And  unspeaking  lingers  near  his  side  a  little  while. 

Once,  the  tide  of  life  all  thrilling,  in  a  Summer's 
night, 

o 

Clasped    a    moment    in    his   arms,    I   touched  the 

borders  of  delight  ; 
But  I  turned,  my  being  shaken,  and  with  faltering, 

aimless  feet, 
Fled  for  years  the  love  forbidden,  still  so  strangely 

sweet. 

And  those  waves  of  feeling,  breaking  through  the 

cruel  years, 
Leave   my  heart  a  hopeless  wreck,   beneath   the 

current  of  my  tears ; 
Yet  it  turns  with  all  its  yearning  to  that  city,  far 

and  dim, 
And  to-night,  all  else  forgetting,  is  again  with  him. 


54  POEMS    OF    ANNA    MORRISON    REED. 


&nte 


[7 HEN   this  strange  garment  that  my  soul  has 
V 

worn 

Has  burned  away  beneath  the  fitful  flashes 
Of  that  wild  fever  that  no  cure  has  known, 

Until  the  heart  consumes  to  coldest  ashes 
"Life's  fitful  fever,"  burning  with  such  loss 

Of  thought  and  feeling — earth's  diviner  treasure, 
So  many  precious  things  among  the  dross, 

Their  value  would  a  life-time  take  to  measure. 

When  a  dust  to  dust"  a  strange  voice  softly  says, 

And  sadly  drop  the  valley  clods  above  me, 
While  telling  o'er  the  events  of  my  days, 

Amid  the  tears  of  those  who  think  they  love  me  ; 
If  they  could  know  the  seeming  endless  pain 

That  I  had  passed  beyond — and  died, 
They  would  not,  surely,  wish  me  back  again, 

Where  all  that's  Christ-like  still  is  crucified. 

That  priceless  debt  the  world  cannot  repay— 
A  child's  lost  faith  in  all  its  vain  assurance, 


POEMS  OF  ANNA  MORRISON  REED.         55 

The  hope  that  turns  toward  a  brighter  day, 

Through  months  of  toil,  and  patience,  and  en 
durance. 

This  is  the  sum,  too  oft,  through  changing  years, 
Of  sacrifice  no  words  may  fitly  tell ; 

And  so,  despite  the  most  regretful  tears, 
We  sleep,  "  after  life's  fitful  fever,"  well. 

I  have  so  suffered — thus  a  glad  relief 

Seems  possible ;  and  now,  as  Time  is  fleeting, 
I  look  where  death  stands,  just  beyond  my  grief, 

And  know  that  there  no  pulse  of  pain  is  beating ; 
Where  sin,  ingratitude,  and  pride  and  lust, 

That  have  so  marred  the  frail  thing  I  am  wearing, 
Lying  beside  that  poor  handful  of  dust, 

Are  left  at  last,  while  I  go  on  uncaring. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


:_.,_. 


3BEJJH 

KtMwtt 


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